Music of the Spheres
by Minstrel in the Gallery
Summary: Mordin receives a pleasant surprise late one evening when he hears human classical music filtering into the lab from the Normandy's top floor. Not only does it lead him to an astonishing conclusion about Collector forces, but it also offers him a glimpse into the reclusive Commander's singular ethos. Shepard/OC back-story. Rated T for thematic elements and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Mass Effect franchise, nor have I solicited or received any form of financial compensation for writing Music of the Spheres. Everything recognizable from the Mass Effect universe falls under copyright of BioWare/EA. Any musical compositions I may mention constitute the intellectual property of their respective composers. Hamon is completely my fault and should be treated as such.**

* * *

**MUSIC OF THE SPHERES**

CHAPTER I

_Anything cracked will shatter at a touch._

_-Ovid_

0300 hours. The slightest determined buzzing could be discerned over the habitual hum of the Normandy's engine, but this was to be expected. A lone seeker was busily assessing its options for escape, hurling its chitinous body at the reinforced glass walls of its cage and questing for an exit. It knew instinctively that its fitfully dozing captor just outside would awake rather soon, and that any break it could hope to make would have to occur during one of these brief intervals when the scientist would be off his guard. Then, there would doubtless be time sufficient to prepare him for harvesting before returning to the swarm; thence away to the succor of its overmind.

A faint, hesitant vibrating tone, as of another large insect, began emanating without warning from the upper floor. The seeker went berserk, flitting erratically in a sudden rush of primal hysteria as the scientist jerked awake. Blinking inquisitively into the cage, he eyed the seeker with keen interest. He fumbled through the sizeable stack of datapads to his right, pulled one out from the center of the pile without looking at it, and began typing furiously while muttering to himself.

"Rudimentary self-preservation instinct. Absent when incorporated into swarm. Influence of hivemind, for lack of better term, must substantially weaken when isolated. Phenomenon common to all Collector variants, or present only in seekers? Large-scale testing of hypothesis crucial to – no, no, no. Too risky. Will nonetheless inform Shepard at soonest opportunity." He paused, suddenly quite aware of what had sparked such an inexplicable reaction from the seeker. His gaze traveled slowly up to the ceiling of the tech lab, from where the unmistakable sound of a human-crafted stringed instrument was filtering in through the air vent. Delighted, Professor Mordin Solus leapt out of his chair and made a beeline for the elevator.

* * *

Commander Shepard had not touched her viola since before the mission on Ilos. Having additionally suffered the inconvenience of being dead for two years, she was more than a bit rusty. Still, she had never received an explicit order to give up practicing at any point following her enlistment, and she was not about to quit right when she most needed the solace it provided her. If a humble musical instrument could keep her from going insane on the shuttle off Mindoir, it could do the same on a ship that both was and was not the Normandy, populated with two-faced Cerberus agents and already reeking of treachery.

Shepard had never really let on to any of the original crew members that she possessed any artistic inclinations whatsoever; that is, until Gunnery Chief Williams had first confessed her admiration for Tennyson. When Shepard had made the initial rounds of the SR-2 and had inspected her cabin for surveillance bugs, she had discovered her viola inexplicably resting in its battered case underneath the bed. She suspected that Williams had had something to do with salvaging the instrument. Good old Williams. Shepard began wondering absently as to where she had ended up and how she was doing, but stopped abruptly as she forgot her place in the piece she was practicing.

_Concentrate, damn it. It's not like you're in top form at the moment._ She sighed, putting down her bow and flipping backwards through the sheet music. Sharps and flats danced a sickening polka on each page, and she realized that painstakingly re-learning an old piece was more than her overwrought mind could handle at the moment. She slumped in her chair, defeated by a swarm of accidentals. _Behold the illustrious Commander Shepard: butcher of Torfan; destroyer of Saren and Sovereign; blasphemer of viola music; murderer of the rachni, the Council, Urdnot Wrex, Hamon..._

A quiet, efficient rap on the door derailed Shepard's train of thought, and for once she was grateful for the distraction. Most nights, similar or identical thoughts were left to run their course without the interruption of blissful sleep – a concept that Shepard was beginning to dismiss as an improbable myth. Still, the fact remained that someone was at her door despite the hack she had improvised for the elevator controls six days earlier. There could only be one plausible explanation.

"EDI?"

The omnipresent blue globe that Shepard loved to hate ballooned into existence in its appointed corner by the door. "Yes, Shepard?"

In vain, Shepard tried not to let the deceptively helpful voice grate on her nerves for the umpteenth time. "Why'd you restore access to this floor?"

"Professor Solus was insistent that I provide a temporary exception to your 'override'. He mentioned something about having made a major discovery while observing the seeker you captured on Freedom's Progress."

Shepard nodded resignedly. "All right, fine, open the door." _Should have known he'd be the only other one awake at this hour..._

Mordin swept enthusiastically into the room, only briefly scanning the gloom of the cabin before locking eyes on Shepard. She was sitting on a severe stool pilfered from Gardner's kitchen, wearing fatigues and a severe T-shirt, and propping her viola upright on her left knee most severely. Typical Shepard. Mordin decided not to comment this time.

"Rebecca Clarke. Human composer from early 20th century. Major proponent of viola as virtuoso solo instrument. Recognized style immediately." He grinned and blinked cheerfully at Shepard.

"Congratulations...?" Rarely did the breadth or depth of Mordin's knowledge surprise Shepard anymore, ever since he had quoted verbatim from her favorite tech manual during their first real conversation a few days back. Indeed, it was refreshing to have someone so professional and productive on board for a change, and Shepard decided that she could cope quite comfortably with his various oddities as long as he remained committed to the mission's objectives. She carefully set her viola onto the adjacent desk and let him continue, finding that she did not mind the company so much.

"Always was a great admirer of human classical music, Shepard. Participated in several productions of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. Relegated chiefly to patter songs, though...nothing terribly lofty. Never would have guessed you harbored similar interest. Quite pleased to have found kindred soul on ship."

Shepard made a valiant effort to imagine Mordin singing 'A Modern Major-General' in full regalia, but ultimately decided against performing the required mental acrobatics. _Keep it strictly business. Always works when all else fails._ "Well, I'm sorry if I woke you up. I haven't practiced since before getting spaced, so I probably sound horrible."

"Not at all. Sheer serendipity, Shepard – strains of 'Morpheus' forthcoming from this room produced unexpected result from seeker!"

"Did it think I was another seeker or something?" Shepard managed a wan smile at the thought.

"Not likely. According to seeker's observable behavior, it assumed threatening hostile presence nearby and attempted self-defense!"

"At least my 'musical talents' elicit some type of reaction...I guess I shouldn't be picky."

Mordin frowned. "Will address distorted views of your own artistic merit later. Collector forces never before observed with intact self-preservation instinct. Suspect sense of self manifests on inverse correlation with proximity to Collector hivemind. Either isolation or imposed false sense of isolation, ideally through dispersal of disorienting chemical via omni-tool, might be answer to seeker-swarm conundrum!" Mordin's dark eyes blazed even in the dim surroundings. Shepard looked away, suddenly acutely reminded of Hamon.

She shook herself. Nothing good ever came from dwelling on loss outside of her appointed practice time. It wasn't like the crew would understand or make time for her: everyone had plenty of their own problems. Wearily, she rose to her feet, adopting the most congenial mien she could muster.

"Well, Professor, are you going to need to run tests on the seeker immediately or do you have time to celebrate your breakthrough with a glass or two of wine?"

"Would like that, actually. Probably best not to traumatize sole test subject by running...(sniff)...a second test...after such a short interval."

* * *

They headed down to the mess hall on deck three. As they expected, nobody else was awake at that hour - unless you counted EDI, which Shepard definitely did. Mordin took a seat at the near end of the table as Shepard rummaged around in the sadly perfunctory liquor cabinet, eventually managing to draw out a bottle of Bordeaux from the least accessible corner. The last thing she wanted was to have Lawson, Chakwas or - heaven forbid - Gardner stumble upon her carefully curated personal vice.

"It's First Contact War vintage. Should be quite good by now; I've been saving it for an occasion like this. Here." She slid into the seat across from Mordin and poured him a full glass, which he sniffed doubtfully before taking a sip. He beamed immediately.

"Ah, humans. Say what you will about them: they do love their pleasures. Base ones to ravish the body; exalted ones to elevate the soul. Have to say, this wine handily encompasses both extremes. Seems you have exceptional taste for a human, Shepard. Refreshing rarity among your species."

Shepard chuckled as she took an unceremonious swig from her glass. "I may have come across a few rare and exceptional salarians who influenced me along the way. Take yourself, for instance - or Captain Kirrahe. It was nothing short of an honor to serve alongside him and his men on Virmire. Kirrahe is an officer and a gentleman and I'll say as much to anyone who asks."

"Agree unreservedly. Once served under his command during tenure with STG. Bit of a cloaca, though. Command unit could have done without his interminable speeches. Loved them myself. 'Hold the line!' Still, not terribly useful on soldiers with short attention spans. Human rhetorical influence likely. Skirted boundaries of elcor torpor on more than one occasion. For most, functioned better as soporific than as stimulant."

"Not for you, though?"

"Not in the least. Getting old, even then. Find myself drawn less and less to harried salarian company. May need to retire properly at some point."

"Based on this seeker-swarm countermeasure alone, I'm betting you could buy yourself a gated estate on Sur'Kesh and live like a king for the rest of your life. You won't have a thing to worry about – provided you survive this mess, which is a given if I've got any say in the matter." Shepard gazed at the table for a moment, pondering idly if she had ever said such a thing to a crew member in the past. Certainly not on Torfan, or indeed at any time before then. Inebriation was certainly not to blame...at least not yet. What was going on?

"...Would gladly drink to that, Shepard. Thank you." Shepard blinked, returning to center. Drinking – now that was something she understood and could cope with. She raised her glass to clink against his, then drained it in one determined motion. Mordin still had almost half a glass of wine remaining, but Shepard still topped off his glass before pouring herself a new one. He eyed the opaque reddish-black decoction with subdued pleasure, meditatively stirring the contents of the glass by tracing tiny circles on the table with the base of the stem. It seemed to take him longer than usual to climb back out of himself in order to speak again.

"Must have met other notable salarians, Shepard. Forgive me in advance, but practically consumed with curiosity. Noticed that while coming to after batarian poisoning incident on Omega, you seemed convinced I was someone else. Someone named Harmon?"

Shepard choked on the wine, nearly leaping out of her skin in blank shock. _Can Solus be serious?! That's it. Never accepting a drink from a batarian again, no matter how dire the perceived need. _"Uh, Hamon. A friend of mine from Mindoir. Ancient history." She only hoped that her agitated demeanor would turn Mordin away from this line of discussion. In retrospect, she realized that she had only given him an invitation to investigate further, per ancient tradition of salarian body language. Mordin interlaced his fingers underneath his chin and leaned forward, genuinely fascinated.

"A salarian on a human colony? Out of the ordinary. Expect dire need for someone with considerable scientific or technical expertise."

"You would be correct." After a few deep breaths, Shepard managed to regain the selfsame icy calm that had pulled her through one dicey combat situation after another. _Screw it. Solus would never let me get away with half-assing this story_. _Might as well continue._ "...The humans there never really made a habit of admitting aliens, but Hamon was different. Most of the colonists on Mindoir, my folks included, were farmers with no knowledge of maintaining the automated defense systems already in place. Reports of batarian raids in the area had them running scared, and for good reason. They needed a few good engineers and they needed them quickly, so of course Mindoir's leadership embraced Hamon. Part of it was charitable, since he had found himself on the run from a slaving ring on Nasurn, but he was also well on his way to becoming a damned decent engineer. He would have only been about ten years old when he arrived -"

"Plenty of time for him to have received sufficient engineering training for Mindoir's needs, I would expect," Mordin added, sampling the wine once more.

"It certainly was...but he always wanted to know more. To study more. The hunger he had for knowledge was legendary by Mindoir's standards. He took courses over the extranet, but nothing could sate his desire to know everything there was to know about engineering. I had also taken an interest in the subject and would ask him for help with my homework – something that wasn't so easy for an egocentric fourteen-year-old who was top of her class."

A warm, avuncular smile illuminated Mordin's lined face. "Wouldn't have expected anything less from you, Shepard."

Shepard shifted uncomfortably as she attempted to smooth back a rakish strand of her short dark hair. "...Thanks, Solus. Anyway, one day he was going out to make repairs on one of the defense towers and passed my house. He must have heard me practicing my viola because he stopped by on the way back wanting to talk about human classical music. My parents were avid music lovers and they had a piano sitting in one corner of the living room. He walked over and started playing a Mozart piano concerto right from the score. I couldn't believe it."

"Impressive, considering three-fingered phenotype on all salarians with normal telomeres. Do continue."

"At that point, I decided that I wasn't going to remain in his shadow any longer. I was going to be better than him, both at engineering and at music. I never succeeded, of course: he was just too brilliant. We did manage to become something akin to...well, to close friends, after I got over my pointless envy. We even played some music together eventually – he did so love Clarke and Hindemith." She refilled Mordin's glass as well as her own before loosely replacing the cork.

"Surprising that his sundry talents would have gone unnoticed." Mordin cleared his throat, guessing at the probable answer even before he asked the question but attempting to be as tactful as possible. "...Went on to become eminent professor, I assume?"

"Didn't live long enough. He died during the raids. Not right away, though – the batarians recognized how much value he could provide to them and so they...they forced an implant into his skull while pinning him down..." Stubborn tears began to prick at the corners of Shepard's eyes as her voice faded to a choked, guttural undertone. _Blast it all. Why couldn't I have kept my stupid mouth shut like usual? _

"Shepard..." Mordin breathed. He took her hand in what he hoped she would construe as a harmless, comforting gesture, but one never knew with Shepard. The way she had chewed out Chambers over a minor disagreement about professionalism on the Normandy still burned brightly in his mind. To his considerable surprise, she continued without paying him any heed.

"That wasn't the worst of it. He fell completely under their control. All the technical knowledge he had gathered during his short life was still intact, all at the expense of his personal memories. He turned all our defense towers against the colony itself...killed scores of people, my folks included. When I saw him in the wreckage of my house standing over their bodies, I just lost it. I...I..." She squeezed Mordin's hand until it throbbed with pain and he felt it would snap off, but he did not release his grip.

"...Hamon was the first man I ever killed. And _damn _if he wasn't also the greatest friend I ever had." She suppressed a half-chuckle. "Probably why I don't like people to get too close these days. I'm just dooming them by my very presence." Shepard released Mordin's hand and took another gulp of wine, once again embracing her habitual role as the unshakeable commanding officer of the Normandy.

"Apologies if I lost my composure, Solus. We should be celebrating your discovery, not wallowing in your commanding officer's sordid past. Here's to your continued success and to the success of our mission." She clinked her half-empty glass against his as she gave him as sincere a congratulatory nod as she knew how.

Mordin wasn't buying her act for a moment. "Appreciate the sentiment, Shepard, but suspect half-drunken revelling not the wisest course of action under current circumstances. Shepard -" He clapped her on the shoulder with unusual authority. " - _you_ _need to rest_."

Shepard smiled sadly and looked away, not wishing Mordin's keen gaze to broadside her another time. "Next time I'm dead, I'll be sure to take your advice."

"Sleep patterns abnormal for levo-amino-based non-salarian species. Two hours of sleep per circadian cycle patently insufficient for humans. Can offer you melatonin supplements if necessary, but Shepard..." He eased a finger underneath her chin and lifted her head while his eyes scanned expertly over her enervated features. "...have reason to believe problem runs deeper. Crew in need of physically, mentally_, _emotionally healthy commander. Wars rarely won by getting depressed. Have noticed concerted efforts on your part to keep crew at substantial emotional distance. Suggest you initiate effort to reverse paradigm. Doctor's orders. Can begin with me if that is most comfortable."

Shepard couldn't help but find Mordin's concern touching. She let out a heavy sigh and feigned reluctance, though she could not completely suppress the ironic smile that threatened to blow her cover. "If you insist, Professor."

Mordin gave a minute inclination of his head, relieved. "Another thing. Have been observing your excessive usage of surnames and/or titles when referring to crew members. Might improve camaraderie on ship if given names were employed more often. Yours included, Shepard. Appellation of 'Mordin' nowhere near shameful, in my professional opinion. Consequently unfazed when others see fit to call me by it."

Shepard grinned. The pedantism that had irritated her before now seemed nothing short of endearing. "Roger that, Mordin. Deal. And...thanks." She rose from her chair and headed unhurriedly back towards the elevator. Mordin followed suit, pushing in Shepard's errant chair as well as his own.

"Always here if you need me. To whom have I owed this pleasure?" He paused and turned to face Shepard, hand outstretched in a mindful analogue of the common human greeting. Shepard warmly accepted the gesture, gripping his gloved hand with unaccustomed vim.

"The name's Morrigan."

Mordin stroked his chin, eyes flitting over Shepard's figure as if assessing the fit of a garment. "...Interesting. Ancient vernacular human origin in reference to great female leader. Unexpected...but apt nonetheless." He offered Shepard an understated, glancing grin as the elevator doors hissed shut between them.

Shepard stopped dead in her tracks, shaking her head in disbelief. Somehow Mordin just knew everything.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER II

_Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer; nothing is more difficult than to understand him.  
-Dostoevsky _

Later that morning, Shepard found herself busily contending with a flurry of messages on her datapad. Most were generic updates from Yeoman Chambers that Shepard erased after the most perfunctory of glances, but an unexpected note from Operative Lawson piqued her interest enough to merit a more thorough examination.

_Commander,_

_I have received intelligence regarding a possible recruit on the prison ship Purgatory_._ My sources describe this prisoner as a human biotic specialist, apparently one of the most powerful ones living. As much as I would prefer not to associate with career criminals, you have made it abundantly clear that we must look to all corners of the galaxy for aid. I am attaching Jack's dossier at the end of this message. _

_-Lawson_

Shepard considered this. She had heard of the Purgatory, of course, and knew very well that garden-variety law-breakers need not apply for entry – not that anyone in their right mind would enter the ship voluntarily. _So, we're looking at an impressive biotic who is either a loose cannon, a case for the psych wards, or simply a royal pain in the ass. Possibly all three. _Tiny cybernetics whirred just underneath her skin as a mischievous grin played across her lips. _Awesome. _She had been waiting for an opportunity to show her insufferable XO who truly ran business on the Normandy for a while, and she savored the delicious irony of Lawson's having brought this valuable convict to her attention in the first place. Plus, it didn't seem to her that this Jack would expend any special effort making nice with the crew while there were Collectors to reckon with._ Exactly the kind of person we need, provided I don't wake up one night with a shiv between my ribs._ _That's what the elevator override is for, anyway – that, plus the extra Carnifex and spare ammo under my pillow. _

She knew that the uncompromising cruelty of batarian slavers was not needed for her crew to replicate Hamon's betrayal: mutinies happened, even under the best of commanding officers. Hell, Urdnot Wrex had come uncomfortably close on Virmire before she had been forced to give him what could be considered the harshest "stand down" order in history._ Poor bastard, _Shepard opined glumly. If only he could have met Mordin, perhaps he would have begun to understand that the genophage had been necessary after all. Then again, Mordin could have convinced Sovereign that it was inferior to the ape-descended humans, given enough patience on the part of the erstwhile Reaper. He was certainly "something else", as Chambers had once called him...but Shepard could not fathom exactly what else, and it bothered her.

The bright green notification light on her datapad winked up at her, interrupting her glum reverie. She frowned. _More insipid tripe from Chambers implying that someone else needs their hand held? _Purely out of curiosity, she activated the screen. The source – and content – of the message startled her a great deal.

_Morrigan:_

"_She pined in thought; / And, with a green and yellow melancholy,/ She sat like Patience on a monument, /Smiling at grief"_

_Have been reflecting on yesterday's conversation. Meet me in lab when time permits._

_-Mordin_

Shepard read the brief missive over again with mounting incredulity. Once satisfied that it was not a trick of the light or a malfunction within her optical implants, she threw her head back and chuckled heartily. _Well played, Professor. It's not every day that somebody messages me just to quote Shakespeare. A little more of this and a little less "Trillions of people are depending on you, Shepard", and I might not go completely crazy. _She threw on a civilian jacket and poured herself a cup of coffee before hastening out of her quarters, equal parts confounded and curious as to what Mordin wanted to discuss.

Shepard's bewilderment only grew as she heard strains of a Puccini opera wafting lazily from the tech lab. Silently bemoaning the lack of subtlety possible when dealing with motion-sensitive doors, she peered around the door frame, feeling as if she was intruding on something very private. Mordin was hunched over the seeker's cage, busily taking readings on his omni-tool. So engrossed was he in this task that he failed to noticed Shepard's presence until she was standing a small matter of feet away.

"Ah, Morrigan. Didn't expect you so early. Currently running additional tests on seeker. Confirmed previous hypothesis about self-awareness in Collector forces. Effects of hivemind presence similar to indoctrination, but much simpler. Very elegant process, must admit. Er, not in the sterile area, please. Could spill, disrupt experiment." Mordin pointed out the prominent notice entreating all occupants of the lab to "KEEP THIS AREA CLEAN" and made a tiny, urgent gesture for Shepard to hand over her coffee mug. Embarrassed, she obliged - but not without an undercurrent of reluctance.

Mordin eyed the pitch-colored beverage with considerable skepticism. "Mentioned your admirable taste for a human before. Beginning to regret said statement. You actually enjoy drinking this, Morrigan Shepard?" He took the smallest of sips and made a face. Although Shepard would have normally reacted harshly to similar talk from a subordinate, she found that she was genuinely amused and grateful for his honesty. "Simply put: yes. You don't have to like it as well." She stepped well clear of the sterile section and accepted her cup back from a vexed Mordin. "If you'd let me get a word in edgewise, I was hoping to thank you for the message you sent me just now."

Mordin smiled softly to himself. "Wasn't sure you would be awake. Hoped you would have tried to rest as much as possible. Confronting old grief...never easy even under best circumstances. Tried to avoid it myself. Too much ethical ambiguity with genophage modification. Easier to send assistants to implement core of project, leave ramifications to history. Never that simple. Felt duty to help you, but not certain how best to begin. Recalled Viola's character in Twelfth Night. Prime example of emotional suppression taken to extremes. Nothing wrong with playing the viola, but...would caution against playing Viola, am I clear?"

Shepard's gaze drifted sideways as she scratched her head, rumpling her overgrown crew cut. "...Sort of. Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I appreciate it. If there's anything at all that I can do for you – new lab equipment, specialty supplies, a VI assistant, something like that – please don't hesitate to ask me. I can always put in a requisition order if there's something specific you need."

"Have found nothing lacking in lab setup - many thanks for that, by the way. Might ask one favor, though. Find myself well into last decade of life. Will therefore need significant practice to regain top combat form before final battle. If allowed to accompany you on certain high-risk assignments, would be very grateful. Can fight especially well against organic enemies, krogan in particular. Still, Collectors a synthetic-organic hybrid. Might necessitate comparable number of combat trials against synthetics."

"But you're a _doctor_, for crying out loud. It's not like I'm ever going to send you out to wrestle a thresher maw. You're very important to the team and -" Shepard skidded to a halt mid-sentence. _'Important to me'? Seriously? What is happening to you, Morrigan Syntyche Shepard? Getting all touchy-feely just in time for the suicide mission? Phenomenal strategy. You must've been picking up tips from Williams's granddad about that one. _

Mordin was quick to fill the conversational void. " - And therefore must ensure I perform optimally under all types of combat situations. Simply in need of routine maintenance, Morrigan. Not unlike your pistol. If left unused for long enough, will not fire as accurately or reliably. Wouldn't ask you to toss me into the fray _per se_, unless situation necessitates drastic parameter shift." He appeared to fret, unconsciously stroking one of the more prominent scars lining the side of his face.

"Well...I'll think about it. Tell you what – we're currently on approach to the prison ship Purgatory to retrieve one of their inmates: a human biotic by the name of Jack. The mission probably won't involve much fighting, if any, but if things end up going south in a hurry I could use an experienced medic. We might even need to sedate the convict, so pack some chloroform just in case."

Mordin's eyes widened in surprise. "The Purgatory, you say? Wouldn't be surprising if forced to fight. Run by Blue Suns, you know. Had my share of run-ins with them back on Omega. Heartless mercenaries. Lawless hooligans." He suddenly brightened, and Shepard could have sworn she detected a hint of mischief in his normally dispassionate voice. "Would be delighted to help. Suspect Garrus would enjoy assisting as well, given his history."

"Good idea; I'll head down to the main battery and ask him. In the meantime, grab your gear. Looks like our ETA to _Purgatory _is about 40 minutes."

"Morrigan, one more thing -"

"Shoot."

Mordin gazed at the floor, gathering himself. "Wanted to thank you for earlier. If not for your decision to practice last night, may never have discovered basis for seeker-swarm countermeasure. In addition, noted a certain unique sensibility in your playing. Painstakingly refined, bittersweet...almost tender. Would enjoy listening more closely next time, if allowed the opportunity."

Shepard chuckled, enjoying what she considered an absurd turn in their conversation. "Deal...but only if you sing for me sometime."

"Will do." Mordin wistfully motioned to the speakers, from which the opera could still be heard going its desultory way. "Cannot promise to outshine Caruso. Still, skill level likely sufficient to entertain military grunts such as yourself." He winked knowingly at Shepard as he returned to his console.

"I'm holding you to that, Mordin." She pointed a waggish finger at the wry salarian as she made her way out of the lab.

* * *

Although she would never have told him so to his face, Shepard had always harbored a quasi-fraternal fondness for the Normandy's resident ex-C-Sec officer. Garrus Vakarian: now _there_ was someone who could truly get things done, without asking a steady stream of vapid questions or having dramatic changes of heart midway through missions. Plus, she liked to think that she shared his impeccable grasp of gallows humor. She just hoped that he would be able to tear himself away from his endless adjustments to the main gun for long enough to maim a few deserving Blue Suns hides.

Shepard cleared her throat, facing the back of an enthralled Garrus. "How's the heavy artillery holding up, Vakarian?"

Garrus replied pithily without turning around. "As well as can be expected when it's turian tech and you've got a bunch of humans looking after it. Ever wonder why I never come out of this room except to take a piss?"

"Cheer up - at least you're not stopping rockets with your face."

"Too soon, Shepard."

"You can handle it."

Garrus turned to face Shepard in mock indignation. "Ouch! Is it just me, or has Joker taught you a crash course in being obnoxious?"

"Nope, I sat through the whole class. Guest Lecturer Solus quoted Shakespeare at me too."

"No kidding? I wonder if he knows anything about turian epic poetry. Better not to mention it to him: the shortest of those could easily last a couple dozen galactic standard hours, even if recited by a salarian."

"Nice. Kinda sounds like those should be essential listening for you, given how long you spend calibrating each day."

The long-suffering turian nodded in resignation. "Yeah, okay, have your fun. You'll all be thanking me when the main gun actually fires on target this time around."

Shepard smirked, leaning against the railing separating the artillery components from the platform. "So, got time for a little shore leave coming up?"

"Good one, Shepard."

"No, seriously. We're on approach to the Purgatory to pick up a potentially volatile human criminal Lawson told me about. I'll be taking point and Mordin offered to run interference. Interested in coming along?"

Garrus hemmed and hawed, but Shepard could tell that he did not need much convincing. "Well, now that you mention it, a little shore leave couldn't hurt. Especially if it involves Blue Suns falling over each other for their turn in our crosshairs. It'll be just like old times."

"Now, now. It's possible that we won't have to fight."

"Given the involvement of a certain human Spectre, I'd bet on a slightly different outcome." Garrus folded his arms and continued in a loudly confidential tone that reminded Shepard of a drunk she'd seen propositioning the Consort back on the Citadel. "So...since when is the good doctor 'Mordin' to you?"

"Huh?"

"I seem to recall that referring to everyone by just their clan name was a particular habit of yours. Did Cerberus upgrade your people skills as well?"

"Not to my knowledge." Shepard ruffled her hair again, looking as uncomfortable as an unarmed volus on Omega. "...Look, it's not important. Are you coming or not?"

"Right behind you. Well, figuratively speaking. I still have to finish these calibrations."

Shepard rolled her eyes. Vakarian was nothing if not predictable.

* * *

"What'd I tell you, Shepard?" Garrus yelled from behind a crate as bullets shrieked overhead and Warden Kuril receded behind a substantial force-field.

"There's always fighting when I'm involved! Yeah, I get it!" Shepard popped up from cover just long enough to deploy a frigid jet of Bose-Einstein particulates from her omni-tool. She cursed as buckshot peppered her shoulder, but comforted herself with the sight of her adversary's face slowly snap-freezing in an expression of sheer dumb befuddlement. Mordin offered her an application of medi-gel, which she returned to him dismissively.

"Save it for when we actually need it!" As she punched a few hasty buttons on the selfsame omni-tool, a holographic drone flickered into existence at her side and lobbed itself cheerfully at the hostile group of prison guards. Mordin eyed it with scholarly approval before bolstering its attack with a few smoldering thermite projectiles. Shepard's eyes widened incredulously upon observing his leisurely descent back to cover without so much as a scratch.

"Easier for me to avoid fire. Most perceive me as harmless. Have always enjoyed proving them wrong. By comparison, you walk around with target painted on back."

"Thanks for reminding me, Mordin..."

"Given your value to enemy combatants, tactic with drone very sound. Distracting. Made your own omni-tool, I presume?"

"Partially, yes. Can we discuss this later? We're kind of in the middle of a fire fight..." As if to emphasize her point, a Blue Suns commander chose that moment to open sustained fire a few inches above their heads. Shepard countered with a thermite jet of her own, followed by a precise volley of sub-machine gun rounds.

Mordin took advantage of their opponent's panic to dispatch cryogenic particles in his direction, shattering him instantly. "Forgive me, Shepard. Tend to think out loud even under mortal stress. Problematic at times. Should we talk once convict comfortably situated on Normandy?"

"Yes, Mordin. Anything. Just – _watch out! _Legionnaire at three o'clock!" The heavily armored turian left cover and rushed at the pair so suddenly that neither of them had much time to react. Instinctively, Shepard knocked Mordin to the floor to shield him as she aimed a cryo blast at the legionnaire's center mass. A similarly confounded expression congealed across his face, soon to be wiped off by a pair of brass slugs when he threatened to topple on top of Shepard and Mordin. Shepard holstered her pistol and helped Mordin back to a crouched position while Garrus looked on with considerable amusement.

"Geez. First you were just chatting each other up, now this. You know, first dates are customarily held in nice restaurants, not on prison ships swarming with hostiles. Just a friendly FYI."

"You know that glorified birdcage you call a mouth, Garrus? Kindly keep it shut. Thank you."

Garrus adopted a schoolyard taunting lilt to his voice, made all the more maddening with the added harmonic. "I know what I saw."

"Uh-huh. And while you were looking you weren't paying attention to our friendly neighborhood adversaries. Are there any more behind that doorway?"

"Looks like we've got three approaching." A single shot rang out, tolling long and loud above the chirping of smaller calibers in its vicinity. "...Make that two."

"Good work, Garrus. Let's take them out and disable that barrier."

"I can handle them. They look like regular Blue Suns soldiers. You and Mordin should get to work on the barrier ASAP."

"Roger that."

"Barrier engines at ten, one and two o'clock! Shepard, suggest deploying overload tech – will disable them with all requisite haste! "

"Good thinking, Doctor."

The hapless warden proved no match for the pair once unwrapped from his security blanket. Shepard and Mordin nodded to each other in brief congratulations, lowered their weapons and ran down the deserted corridor, Garrus following closely in their wake.

* * *

A slim woman with a closely shaved head and vibrant tattoos was waiting for them at the end of the line, biotics flaring and shotgun barrels blazing.

"Not one step closer, Cerberus."

Shepard took a painstakingly deliberate step forward. "Or what?"

The woman cocked her shotgun meaningfully. "You must be new to the galaxy. My name is Jack. I kill people. I can kill you just as easily."

"Look, Jack, everyone else on this ship is dead. The food stores are only going to last you so long. We're the only shuttle out of town, and we're offering you a ride. Interested?"

"Aw, how cute. Cerberus wants to play Sir Lancelot and rescue the damsel in distress."

Shepard's hands shook in raw indignation. "My _name_ is Shepard."

Jack sized up Shepard for a long moment, then slowly lowered her weapon. "Okay, Lancelot – Shepard – _whatever_. If you're that serious about having me on board your little ship, we'll have to negotiate. My demands are simple enough: I want top-tier access to all Cerberus files, or no deal."

Shepard nodded curtly, punching a few buttons on her omni-tool and activating Jack's in the process. "Granted."

Mordin leaned over and whispered discreetly into Shepard's ear. "Sure this is a good idea, Morrigan? Brought chloroform. Can administer immediately if necessary."

Shepard lowered her omni-tool and locked eyes with Mordin, dead serious. "No, don't. Whatever her beef is with Cerberus, it can't hurt for her to have more information. Either the files will completely disprove what she's on about, or they will bring something important to our attention before it's too late. She deserves access to the files."

Garrus also took the opportunity to air his concerns, his informal drawl reverberating off the walls and making Shepard flinch. "Really, Shepard? A C-Sec officer has to endure your 'healthy skepticism' for half a year, but you're already trusting a hardened criminal with something this big?"

She turned squarely toward Garrus, the determination in her grey eyes taking him aback. "Yes. Got a problem, officer?"

Garrus shook himself, regaining composure. "Remind me never to ask you for personal advice."

"You already did. Many times."

"Okay, then remind me not to listen to you next time."

Shepard shook her head in exasperation. "Stow it, Archangel." She made her way into the dock, looking expectantly back toward her new recruit. "So, are you coming, Jack?"

Jack shrugged. "Sure. Just don't expect me to be Little Miss Enthusiasm about it."

"Looks like I'll have to take whatever I can get from you."

"Likewise, Lance."

Cybernetic scars suddenly flaring, Shepard wheeled around on the ball of her foot as she barked at the insubordinate convict. "Hey, back where I come from there's a little thing called respect for one's superiors. So don't call me that."

"Tough luck. You want me on your ship, you get used to it."

Shepard felt deflated. She performed an ethical calculation somewhat slower than she would have liked, arrived at an answer she could live with, and let out a ponderous sigh. "...Fine. But if you call me anything other than 'Commander' in front of the rest of the crew, you're dead meat. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Jack saluted smartly using only her middle finger as Mordin and Garrus suppressed fits of laughter at Shepard's expense.

Shepard scowled at the trio, swiping a dismissive arm in their direction as she boarded the Normandy. _This is going to be one long war._


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER III

_Without friends no one would choose to live, though he had all other goods._

_- Aristotle_

"Are we going to have a problem?"

Shepard stood outlined in the hatchway, the glaring light from the main deck sculpting an imposing silhouette from her austere frame. Aside from the sinuous blood-orange scars that glowed menacingly in the gloom, Jack could not detect a hint of expression either in Shepard's countenance or her tone of voice...not like she cared what the commander thought, especially after that humiliating exchange back on the Purgatory. She crossed her tattooed arms and spat a retort up at Shepard.

"Blow it out your ass, Lance."

The commander shut her eyes in resignation, barely containing a groundswell of fulminating anger. After a few deep breaths, during which she might or might not have been fantasizing about drinking vast quantities of whiskey, she countered with as coherent an argument as she could assemble under the circumstances. "Listen, I know you don't like Operative Lawson. I don't either, to tell you the truth. That doesn't mean we shouldn't maintain at least a thin veneer of civility around her. Cerberus is a lot shadier than they let on, and Lawson's got top-level clearance and a 24/7 comm link with the Illusive Man. Do I make myself clear?"

Jack scoffed. "You're seriously gonna talk to me about Cerberus being shady? You strut around up there on your shiny deck, thinking you're so perfectly wise to what's really going on - well, let me tell you something. You're their puppet, nothing more. As soon as you stop being useful, they're going to come after you with everything they've got. And you know what? They're not going to bat an eye about it. No regrets, no second thoughts. That's how they really are."

"So if you're _such_ an expert on Cerberus, why the deliberate nastiness to their hand-picked informant?"

"Because it doesn't matter what she thinks of us. Kiss up to a predator and you're just going to get eaten last. Ask a pyjak. Better to let them know what you really think. That way, when you die, you'll know you stood for something."

Shepard grinned and stroked her chin, admiring the perspicuity of the Normandy's newest recruit. "You know, Jack, I'm actually beginning to like you."

"Like I care."

"If you would only knock it off with the stupid nicknames, then..."

"Not gonna happen, Cap'n. It's kind of hilarious to see you get so touchy about them. No way you'll get me to stop entertaining myself on this boring ship. Nothing personal, really." She smirked as she somersaulted onto the thin ledge of metal she had impulsively decided to use as a bed.

"There's a reason I'm touchy about people giving me nicknames. Desist or I throw you out of the airlock. Final warning." _If, by sheer blind chance, she ever calls me Apex...boy, is she is in for it._

"You're bluffing." Jack turned her back toward the commander and fetched a well-worn copy of _King Arthur And His Knights _from underneath her bunk. The gesture must have had the desired effect of provoking Shepard, since the words "Wanna bet?" had barely escaped her lips before she decided to take violent action. Exercising a surprisingly strong hold, Shepard seized Jack by the ear, dragging her off the metal ledge and up the stairs, deaf to the volley of profane yells that ensued. She only released her vise-grip when Jack offered detailed terms of capitulation.

Jack dusted herself off, cursing profusely upon discovering a fresh tear in her fatigues. "Fine, fine! Fuck it already! The gigantic stick up your ass has been duly acknowledged. Just leave me alone...and keep the Cerberus cheerleader off me."

Shepard smiled smugly. "Looks like we have an understanding. I'll let you know when you're needed for an assignment." With that, she turned on her heel and exited the basement.

"Aw, thanks. I feel so appreciated." Jack picked up her book, examining it for damage not already present from its long and illustrious tenure in backwater spaceports. She fumbled through the dog-eared pages, attempting to find her place in the story as she comforted herself with several creative options for payback.

Still in the stairwell, Shepard overheard the familiar sound of Engineers Donnelly and Daniels exchanging banter. They appeared to be discussing the new arrival to their floor..._or were they, now?_ The temptation to eavesdrop became too compelling: Shepard darted over to the door and pressed a furtive ear to the cold metal.

"So, Ken, did you know we've got a crazy woman downstairs?"

"What?! You'd better not have let her near any of our equipment. Can you possibly imagine how long recalibrating everything would take? What am I talking about – of course you can. We've done it. Stupid Garrus and his Thanix obsession..."

"I'm afraid I saw her prowling around the drive core at around 0 dark 30. Looks like she installed some new T6-FBA couplings. I tried to thank her in person but the elevator wouldn't go all the way up to the loft."

"...Dammit, girl, Commander Shepard had better not be right outside. Och, you'd be asking for it then."

Shepard let out a long sigh as she sidled away from the door and punched the elevator controls. Quite frankly, she was too worn out for much of anything else.

* * *

It turned out that the assignment for which Shepard had anticipated needing Jack took precedence much sooner than she had expected. At his insistence, Mordin had accompanied the two women intending to witness the effectiveness of his countermeasure, and so the three of them had blithely set out for the formerly tranquil human colony of Horizon.

_Horizon._

The word tolled like a death knell through Shepard's overwrought cranium.

_Never would have guessed Williams would've turned her back on me quite like that..._

She stared at the bundle of paperwork in front of her. In the unconvincing guise of a helpful XO, Lawson had brought it to the comm room directly after Shepard's disastrous debriefing with the Illusive Man. Casualty reports, descriptions of findings, non-disclosure agreements...it was all in a day's work after such a significant operation. Resting her head on her elbows, Shepard leafed through the leaning tower of bureaucratic nonsense with a listless hand.

_It's 2185, for fuck's sake. Is Cerberus incapable of making electronic copies of its essential files?_

Almost without thinking it through, she removed the top page from the ungainly jumble of papers and, with a precise flick of her left wrist, set it on fire with her omni-tool. The remnants of the document crinkled and turned a wonderfully entropic shade of brown, leaving faint burn marks on the conference table as they did so. Feeling slightly more invigorated, Shepard proceeded to apply the identical treatment to a good third of the stack before sustaining an interruption in the form of Mordin. Shepard acknowledged him with a faint smile and nod, while the professor could only survey the devastation in distress.

"Hey, Mordin – you did good today."

Mordin jolted out of his contemplative state, instantly focusing his attention back to the commander. "Ah. The seeker-swarm countermeasure. Glad to have been of assistance." Slowly, carefully, as if attempting to dismantle an active nuclear warhead, he approached Shepard and laid a mollifying hand on her shoulder. "...Morrigan, have to ask: regard this as appropriate response to Ashley Williams's overreaction on Horizon? Newton's third law applicable to standard physics, not human interaction." Noting the tentative, self-deprecating chuckle that arose as a result of his crack at a joke, he continued. "Chamomile tea often effective as palliative. Can bring some here if you like."

"All right, sure." Mordin left the comm room while Shepard made an effort to clear away the morass of burnt paper. After a trifling matter of minutes, he returned with a small glass teapot and a single china mug. Shepard was impressed and flattered to observe that he had used top-quality loose-leaf tea instead of the sawdust in bags to which she was accustomed. She moved to pour herself some, but Mordin indicated that she should wait until it had finished steeping.

"Care to retire to your cabin after this? Seem to recall that you wished to hear me sing. Would enjoy listening to you as well, if circumstances would allow it."

"Maybe some other time. Gunnery Chief Williams – Ashley – was the one responsible for retrieving my viola from the SR-1 crash site. I'm not sure if I could even look at it at the moment. She was the closest thing to a friend I had since Hamon, and now..."

Mordin's omni-tool flickered into active mode, informing him of an incoming call. He deactivated it in irritation, checked the tea, and poured a cup for Shepard as he sat down.

"Understood. Personal stake vital in achieving meaningful results during wartime. Not to be underestimated. Thinking of entire galaxy while fighting for its sake...counterproductive. Mortal minds never meant to encompass quantities of such magnitude."

Shepard encircled the mug with her hands, savoring the mild, astringent scent and the warmth of the porcelain. "Mortal minds? So you believe in God?"

"Not religious as you would understand it, Morrigan. Was referencing common salarian belief in immortal souls and minds. Similar to process of reincarnation in human Hinduism. Life after life, learning new things in perpetuity." Mordin's gaze suddenly drifted sideways, and Shepard could have sworn that he looked almost rueful. "Can't say I mind the concept."

Shepard clapped him on the forearm, guessing the root of his malaise. "Relax. I'm sure you've discovered more in your short lifetime than most salarians do in two or three anyway."

Mordin's abrupt speech pattern became even more serrate. "Am thirty-one, Shepard! Only considered short lifetime by asari standards. Still, do appreciate and will attempt to live up to your compliment. For sake of immediate mission, if nothing else."

"Hey, I'm also thirty-one and all I've ever accomplished of note was the systematic wreckage of human-Council relations for the foreseeable future. I'd say you're doing just fine in comparison."

"Useless to compete with others. Competing with self is enough." Softly clasping his hands together, Mordin stared disconsolately into the distance. Despite the so-called empathy deficit that the crew habitually liked to pin on Shepard, she knew she must do something to pull Mordin out of his glum interlude.

"...You know, I'm really glad to have you on my team, Mordin. And not just because your countermeasure saved our collective bacon on Horizon, in case you were wondering."

Mordin offered Shepard a genuine if wistful smile. "Likewise, gratified to have opportunity to innovate, make difference. Meet engaging people. Discuss finer things in life for a change."

His omni-tool activated itself once again, this time emitting a blinking glint of infrared light just above his wrist. With more consternation than annoyance this time, Mordin pulled up a translucent orange screen and began reading the brief contents of a message delivered, for security purposes, in obsolete salarian heiroglyphs. His eyes widened in burgeoning shock, sweat forming pearls on his temple. Shepard leaned in, attempting in vain to make sense of whatever it was that was upsetting her colleague so much.

"Oh my..."

Shepard eyed Mordin with palpable concern. "What's going on, Mordin?"

"Urgent missive from Rentola. Former STG colleague. My assistant, my...student...Maelon...no, no, no..."

"What happened?"

Mordin sprang out of his chair as if electrified. "No time to explain. Would urgently request diversion of Normandy to Tuchanka. Still small chance he might be alive. Must not delay if we are to change course." He cleared his throat, proceeding with care. "Would regard as...immense personal favor."

Shepard nodded earnestly, pressing a quick series of buttons on her omni-tool and sweeping two purposeful digits up to her ear. "Moreau, what's our status?"

Joker's affable voice, peppered lightly with bits of static, filled the anxious hush of the comm room. "We're approaching the Iera relay. ETA: 90 minutes, as long as EDI keeps its navigational presets to itself."

"Chart a course for the Aralakh system. Stat."

"Wanting to take our cute lil' tank baby out for a stroll, huh?"

"Something like that."

Joker paused, making sure to do so just long enough to broadcast precisely how he felt about being left in the dark. "Quite forthcoming today, aren't we, Commander?"

"Just get the damn ship to Tuchanka, Moreau," Shepard snarled. "Don't make me pull rank. Over and out."

Shepard lowered her hand and grinned at Mordin. "Don't worry, we'll find the kid. Least we can do for you."

"Thank you, Shepard. Will never forget this." Without warning, Mordin pulled Shepard into a spindly hug. To her horror, Shepard found that she was grappling instinctively for the pistol holstered to her hip. Scolding herself for her indiscriminate paranoia, she forced herself to relax and, eventually, to return the gesture. _At ease, Shepard. Back to condition yellow: we've established that Mordin's not a threat. _On the contrary, he was warm and comforting and smelled ever so vaguely of lemongrass. _Or is that the tea? Man oh man, this is some bad voodoo you've got going, Doctor. If any of the crew were to see me like this, so laid back..._

Shepard's awkward premonition fulfilled itself when Jacob Taylor entered the room. She quickly disengaged from the professor, who nodded to her in parting before walking smartly back to the lab, and rounded on the hapless operative.

"Just what do you think you're looking at?"

"Sorry, Commander."

"You're damn lucky I haven't figured out how to make my drone launch hellfire missiles, Taylor. Out." Shepard pointed in no uncertain terms toward the door from which he had entered.

"Yes, ma'am." Jacob fairly ran back to the armory, shaking his head in bewilderment.

Utterly spent, Shepard collapsed into the nearest chair. _So, looks like I've gained a friend and lost the last vestiges of my crew's respect in the process. _She stared into the dregs of her tea for a long moment, daring them to give her any sort of enlightenment. Once satisfied that they wouldn't, she downed them in one gulp. Yet despite this irreverence toward the old human superstition, she found herself increasingly reconsidering her predicament the closer she wafted toward fitful sleep. _You never know, Apex: sometimes you've got to lose a battle in order to win the war..._


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Many apologies for the delay in posting this chapter! There was an illness in my family and I was having to prepare for an important concert this past week. I hope you find Chapter 4 to be worth the wait. Thanks for your continuing interest in my humble Mass Effect story - enjoy!

* * *

CHAPTER IV

_Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall._

_- Shakespeare_

Shepard had always been wary around krogan.

Perhaps her misgiving stemmed from suffering one too many bludgeonings at the hands of a robotic krogan combat dummy during basic; she did not know, nor did she particularly care to find out. It was enough to have faced down her share of well-built specimens in battle - and, she thought, almost excessive to have witnessed first-hand Urdnot Wrex's rank inability to think rationally on Virmire. For the life of her, she could not imagine a race equally or better suited to having some malignant galactic sanction placed firmly at its splaying feet, particularly one as subtle and as insidious as the genophage. It was therefore difficult for Shepard not to succumb to a certain flavor of awe, since she found herself traveling to the krogan homeworld with the very scientist responsible for reinstating that greatest of necessary evils.

They rode placidly in the shuttle to Tuchanka, idly glancing at hollow myriads of soulless structures that littered the surface like husks of leaves. Grunt busied himself by pacing in an opposite corner while the sound of his footsteps reverberated across the corrugated floor and up through Shepard's boots. She had been listening quietly to a Bach cello suite on her omni-tool, but turned it off in disgust when she could no longer bear the hellish juxtaposition between the music and the desolation outside the shuttle window. Mordin, however, seemed to react even less favorably to the solemn, mellifluous tones: an infinity of regret found shelter in his unfathomable dark eyes, adding half a decade to his apparent age in a matter of seconds.

"Bet you're looking forward to seeing Maelon again," encouraged Shepard, breaking the uneasy silence.

Mordin replied tersely, occasionally accentuating the gist of his argument with a small hand gesture. "Only if still alive. Chance of that dwindling at near exponential rate. Must make this quick, stealthy operation. Get in, retrieve Maelon, get out. As Firebreak should have been."

"Firebreak?"

"Covert STG project. Unclassified now. First time serving under Kirrahe, visiting Tuchanka. Also, first time having to defend self without tech. Omni-tool shorted out; should have corrected issue earlier."

Shepard pondered this while a smirk settled on her lips. "So, let me guess...you headbutted a krogan to death?"

Mordin eyed Shepard with the same pitying scorn that he had heretofore reserved for Blood Pack recruits tasked with capturing his clinic. "Don't be silly, Morrigan. Place slightly higher value on brain than that. Used pitchfork." Mordin admitted this last as if it were the most obvious course of action possible. Shepard clapped a hand to her cheekbone, hardly daring to believe her ears.

"You _what_?"

"...Not important." Mordin shifted back toward the window as he retreated a few more light-years into himself.

Shepard huffed disdainfully in his direction, trying and failing to gauge a reaction from Grunt. "Whatever you say, sunshine," she sighed as she turned her music back on, deciding on principle to abandon what was obviously a futile endeavor.

They were now close enough to the surface that they could discern certain details in the terrain: circular burn marks recalled the inelegant usage of high explosives, while the remnants of ancient statuary held reluctant vigil over the devastation. Grunt narrowed his eyes and Shepard wrinkled her nose at the scenery, while Mordin surveyed it with a pernicious guilt that he did not bother to conceal.

"Used to be beautiful planet, once. Krogan developed sophisticated shamanic culture. Lost to ages upon acquiring advanced technology. Never deserved genophage," Mordin added ruefully, causing Shepard to pivot around in surprise.

"Wait a minute, Mordin, I was expecting you of all people to put forth an eloquent defense - at least for the idea behind the genophage if not the methods used to carry it out." She shrugged. "I've always thought it was brilliant, for what it's worth."

Grunt ceased his pacing and rounded on the pair, barely containing a sudden and volatile rage. "Look, you skinny little pyjak -"

"Easy, Grunt," cautioned Shepard, believing herself to be the target of the young krogan's ire. Only when his gaze zeroed rather unexpectedly in on Mordin did she realize what had provoked him, and why.

"You wanna know what the genophage really accomplished? Take a good, long look." Grunt flexed his sizable biceps while Shepard blanched involuntarily. "The strongest among us survive while the weakest never see the light of day. Numbers won't help us if we're weak." A hint of uncertainty crept into the vehement baritone of his voice. "At least...that's what Okeer was always on about in the imprints."

Mordin folded his arms in irritation, nearly barking out a response. "Could have had culture again. Art. Music. Science. Not endless fights over female krogan."

Grunt balked, hardly able to believe what his philistine salarian squadmate had just implied. "You think fighting over females doesn't count as art?"

"Salarian sex drive based on neurotransmitter activity, not hormone levels. Find it difficult to understand courtship rituals of species that experience pubescence. Might call it a blessing," he intimated to Shepard, grinning wryly.

"You're not missing out on much," lied Shepard.

"Did not think so."

The trio began readying itself for deployment, loading firearms and checking omni-tools as the shuttle approached Tuchanka's bleak surface. Shepard readied a sniper rifle on the window ledge and surveyed their LZ through the scope while Grunt fired a few 'practice rounds' through the metal floor. After glaring daggers back at the offending krogan, who stared at her perplexedly and wondered what the problem was, Shepard turned to Mordin and made a last-ditch attempt to encourage him. She needed her best operative at full capacity for a mission with such an uncertain outcome.

"I hope you know that you have every right to be proud of your work. You confronted a long-standing dilemma of the galaxy and reaffirmed an elegant solution to it. Not very many could do such a thing, particularly not with the kind of expertise and discretion you exercised. So stop beating yourself up, Specialist Solus."

"You're right, Shepard – not many could renew genophage project. Scruple would hold back most. Not me."

Shepard sighed dejectedly. _Sometimes I wonder why I bother in the first place._

* * *

Mordin's contrition regarding the reinstatement of the genophage began weighing even heavier on Shepard's mind after meeting the self-appointed leader of Clan Urdnot. _Wrex was one thing. I might've been able to convince him given time. But _this _self-righteous hothead? Snowball's chance in hell. Plus, now that Mordin's arguing with himself, what's to prevent him from formulating a cure? What if word got out that he had one?_ As she glanced sidelong at the preoccupied scientist in the passenger seat of their borrowed tank, the answer to her question, however hypothetical, materialized so easily that she took herself aback. _He can handle himself. But if the day ever comes when he cannot, I'd fight off a whole army of krogan if it would keep him safe._

She silently reprimanded herself, recalling exactly how it had felt to bash in Hamon's cranium. _The wages of attachment are death. Nothing more. _Still, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, she could not help but feel that Mordin constituted a rare exception to this rule. The more she analyzed this peculiar instinct, the more volatile her already reckless driving became: the tank grumbled over potholes and skidded halfway off a makeshift bridge before she forced herself to close that avenue of thought. In order to distract herself from wanting a drink and her squadmates from commenting on her driving, she attempted to make small talk with the first subject that came to mind.

"Mordin, I'm curious about Firebreak. Care to tell me anything more about it?"

"Not much to tell. Kirrahe overstepped boundaries of mission. Young commander. Caught up in military bravado like all the rest. Yourself excluded – on occasion. Higher percentage of cloacal tendencies back then; not as salient anymore. Did sustain most conspicuous injuries to self during Firebreak. Improvising melee weapon from farming equipment...problematic, as a rule." He gestured subtly to his broken horn, smiling a weak and mournful smile.

Shepard chuckled ironically, choosing not to believe that the conversation had arrived at the exact topic she had been trying to avoid. "I could have told you that. My parents were farmhands back on Mindoir. When I was sixteen, I had to defend myself against batarian raiders with a shovel and a glitchy student omni-tool for the better part of forty-eight hours. It's why I never go anywhere without a reliable sidearm these days."

"Impressive, Morrigan. Interest of Alliance in recruiting you quite understandable."

Irritation laced Shepard's voice; she had not been fishing for compliments. "Mordin, anyone can do what I did, provided they value their own life highly enough." She soon relented, calming down enough to keep the ungainly tank centered on the road more than half the time. "Funny thing is, I never wanted a career in the military growing up. Never even thought about it. I was torn between becoming a musician or an architect. About the time I resolved to quit competing with Hamon in favor of emulating him, I decided to do both. To design buildings, bridges and spaceports that incorporated mathematical elements of musical harmony, and to create music that echoed the laws of physics and nature. Music of the spheres, as it were. Old human philosophy," she clarified, noting the momentary specter of forgotten knowledge that darkened Mordin's brow.

The pleasure of remembrance soon replaced it, as he elected to make abundantly clear. "Ah, yes. Boethius. Suppose you mean _musica mundana. _Of course, based on outdated Aristotelian view of self-contained universe. Needs to be revised for modern understanding."

_Jeez, Mordin, with you around I'm about ready to throw away my dictionary. _"...True. But things obviously got a little, uh, dicey on Mindoir and I had to make a pretty rapid change in my intended career path. Captain Anderson – my CO back on the old Normandy - had been on vid comm with the shuttles out of there, and at one point he heard me playing my viola for some of the other refugees. Later, when I met him in person, he said he was moved by my resilience and asked to become my guardian. I accepted. More out of a sense of obligation than anything else, I ended up enlisting in the Alliance Navy two years later. It was a fair deal: going into combat engineering wasn't exactly a dire fate for a nerdy teenager. Plus, I was anxious to find out whether my blueprint for an inflatable sentry turret could actually work."

"And did it?"

"Nope. Live and learn, right?"

They laughed.

* * *

The abandoned hospital stood on an uneasy promontory, surrounded by a pall of decay and foreboding. She was reminded uncomfortably and inexplicably of the laboratory on Virmire, and of the insinuations from that uncanny neurospecialist Rana Thanoptis. The architecture echoed that of many of the wrecked houses on Mindoir, but something else about the atmosphere of the place was making her skin crawl. She was about to suggest to Mordin and Grunt that they turn back with all appropriate haste, but stopped dead in her tracks upon hearing a pair of hauntingly familiar voices emanating from inside the building.

"_What in hell happened here..."_

"_Civilians resisting capture. You can either submit or be neutralized: your choice."_

"Grunt? Mordin? Did you hear that?" She winced as a shock of pain assaulted her forehead without warning. Grunt scanned the area, keeping his shotgun in a vise-grip by his side, while Mordin looked on with obvious concern. Shaking off the temporary setback, she ran to the door and began bypassing it with renewed purpose.

"Come on; we've got to find Maelon. If we hurry we might be able to save more prisoners as well." Shepard swallowed hard. _Don't kid yourself, Apex. You know damn well who those voices belong to, and they're no Weyrloc prisoners. _

A heavily armed contingent of clan guards accosted the trio once it had breached the hospital's perfunctory security measures and found a way inside. With more exasperation than surprise, Shepard attempted to negotiate with their leader, Guld: upon meeting with the expected level of failure, she focused on containing him while her squadmates flanked the others. Her honed sense of apprehension renewed itself when a warp field from Guld, followed immediately by a shotgun round, hit her squarely in the midsection and sent her hurtling toward the floor in distress. Mordin hurried over to help her to her feet while Grunt held off the guards.

As Mordin attached a package of medi-gel to the conduits in Shepard's suit, another overpowering pulse of pain wracked her brow, sending bile rising in her throat. The two individuals she had heard before began conversing again, this time from deeper within the labyrinthine structure.

"_I know I have to do this, for the sake of my masters. As they desire this outcome, so do I."_

"_Good God...they've taken you, haven't they? Then..."_

"Uh...Mordin, Grunt, we should get out of here. I don't think there's anything we can do for Maelon at this point. He's long gone."

"...Shepard, should regard that as order? Otherwise, plan to stay behind, look for Maelon whether dead or alive."

"It's not a simple matter of him being alive or dead, Mordin. Don't you get it? He's here because he _wants_ to be here. He's been brainwashed."

"Damning accusation. Should find out for sure. Whole situation devoid of sound empirical evidence."

Although Shepard knew deep down that Mordin was in the right, she could not suppress the unwholesome dread that threatened to devour her wholesale. She found herself tagging along after the good doctor in a most subordinate fashion, trying to drive away the harried premonitions that swooped down on her mind like birds of prey. _This is going to be just like Mindoir, only you will be watching from the sidelines this time. The soul of the poor professor you know and care for will shatter, replaced by a cold lump of solid guilt. Enjoy the company while you still can._

She briefly entertained the notion that these thoughts were not her own, and that someone who wanted her dead was broadcasting them on a frequency that only humans could hear. Yet who could have discovered so much about her psyche, her past, her motivations, when she was loath even to admit certain details to herself...?

Grunt, Mordin and Shepard rounded a corner and entered what appeared to be the main lobby of the hospital, repurposed as a sophisticated laboratory area and featuring a young salarian at center stage. Shepard tried not to recall the Greek tragedies she had read in school, and nearly leapt on Mordin to restrain him as he hurried over to the assistant that he had presumed dead all this time.

_No, don't. That would only anger him. Intervene when there's actually a chance of making a difference. _

Mordin was the picture of relieved warmth as he greeted his former student, while Maelon exuded reservation alone. Their conversation became heated almost at once; Shepard could not bear to listen in on the details. Indeed, she was finding it difficult even to hear specific words between the two over the din of indistinct whispers and insidious dissonance that was busily flooding her senses. The hospital walls seemed to fall away gracefully as they gave way to a rosy sun in a lavender-tinged sky...and a neighborhood in flames.

"_Very well. You've made your choice."_

"_You're right: I have. Goodbye, Hamon. I love you...and I'm so sorry!"_

She raised the murder weapon high above her head...

* * *

"Mordin, stop it! You are not a murderer!"

Shepard lunged at her friend, scalding tears streaming down her cheeks as she knocked the pistol from his grip and shook him desperately by the shoulders. Taken aback by her passion and confusion, Mordin turned slowly toward the traumatized Maelon; he felt his surplus anger gradually dissipating while he considered what killing him might do to Shepard.

"Leave, Maelon. Do not return. Will not exercise restraint if we meet again."

Obediently, and with no small measure of bafflement, Maelon ran. Shepard fell to her knees, partially from exhaustion and partially from her wound.

"Should return to Normandy, Morrigan. Need to treat this properly." He offered her a hand up, which she accepted gratefully. In the corner, Grunt had found some datapads and was smashing them with considerable vim against the concrete floor.

"No need to ask me twice. Let's move. Good work, people."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This installment was assembled rather hurriedly - since most of my chapters so far have been quite serious in nature, I decided to wedge this bit o' fluff in at the last minute. I hope you enjoy it: consider it my little holiday gift to you. As always, thanks for reading! Cheers!

Edit: Added some more legalese to the disclaimer in Chapter 1 and fixed the scene with Weyrloc Guld. He's a biotic and doesn't have concussive shot. Who knew? Not me, apparently (I always used the Renegade prompt to dispose of him).

* * *

CHAPTER V

_It is not possible to fight beyond your strength, even if you strive._

_- Homer_

Back on the Normandy, Shepard was making a yeoman's effort to maintain her usual staunch professionalism. Granted, it proved extremely difficult to do so while being wheeled on a gurney with unwarranted haste toward the medical bay, so she concluded that outright ridicule of her captor offered the path of least resistance.

"You shameless mother hen, I'll have you know that I am perfectly fine. This is an outrage. You're getting your chemical reagents rearranged into Russian alphabetical order for this."

Mess Sergeant Gardner overheard Shepard's protest and let out a surreptitious guffaw. Mordin remained undeterred, however, and gave the gurney an extra kick of speed for emphasis.

"Contact with warp field anywhere near spine no laughing matter. Would advise tranquility in meantime. Will speed recovery, make treatment easier - for all involved," he muttered under his breath.

The medical bay's impeccable white metal doors hissed open as Doctor Chakwas hurried forward to meet the pair, visibly shaken. While helping Mordin to steer Shepard inside, the silver-haired doctor murmured to her colleague in hushed tones that belied her agitation.

"How is she, Mordin? What happened?"

Shepard rumpled her hair with an impatient hand. "Chakwas, please, I'm right here." Mordin shot her a disapproving glance, but did not otherwise comment.

"Hit squarely with biotic warp field, shotgun round on Tuchanka. Lumbosacral area needs particular attention. Have so far administered topical anesthetic, two packs of medi-gel. Numbness to pain has resulted in patient's current dismissive behavior," Mordin added, provoking an indignant scoff from Shepard.

"Oh, so now I'm just a generic 'patient', huh? Thanks a lot, Doc. Need I remind you that this is an outrage?"

"Believe you mentioned it before, yes. Must double-check side effects of pain medication..."

Doctor Chakwas offered Mordin a sympathetic sigh before turning her attention to Shepard. "Well, Commander, however outrageously you believe Mordin has acted, he has doubtless saved you a great deal of suffering today. Now, let's get that wound looked at."

Muttering sour nothings to herself, Shepard moved to prop herself upright, failed, and slumped back down again in vague consternation. Mordin gently pulled her forward by the forearms as Chakwas lifted the hem of her Alliance-issue undershirt, revealing a single spent round embedded in a misshapen mass of blue-tinged flesh. Chakwas pulled a small flashlight from her pocket and examined the wound more closely, frowning in equal parts concentration and uneasiness.

"Commander, this worries me. As bad as this looks, the physical trauma from the buckshot I had to pry out of you after your jaunt in the Purgatory was more severe. I recall that you completely refused medi-gel that time around, yet Mordin says he gave you two packs so far for this...?" She glanced inquisitively up at Mordin, who offered her a resigned nod.

"Felt it was necessary. One directly after impact; one on shuttle back from Tuchanka. Admittedly, administered latter after incurring threats to person, reputation from Shepard. Appears her sensitivity to pain increased dramatically over past few days."

Shepard prodded her wound experimentally and winced. "Or maybe Guld was using an extra-powerful shotgun. Ever think of that?"

"Standard-issue M-300 Claymore. Grunt picked it up after confrontation. Checked it myself."

Doctor Chakwas rummaged in one of the cabinets lining the walls and drew out a large container of chloraethyl spray, which she promptly depressed all over Shepard's lower back. A sharp intake of breath from the commander indicated that the chill chemical had produced the intended effect. "Do you have any insights, Mordin?" Chakwas asked, not bothering to hide her puzzlement at Shepard's predicament.

"Have two in mind. Morrigan demonstrated significant mental, emotional strain on Tuchanka," Mordin hinted, eliciting a sinister glance from Shepard. "Won't go into details," he added as she exhaled in relief. "Many different triggers possible, but have reason not to rule out stage 1 indoctrination. Examined much of Rana Thanoptis's research on the topic. Discovered that Reapers employ pain when subject resists subliminal promptings. Can be considered converse of Pavlovian method. No Reaper forces observed planetside, however: implications troubling if able to affect organics from great distances."

"Indeed. That also makes it harder to prescribe for," Chakwas lamented, picking up a forceps.

Mordin cleared his throat, bracing himself for the impact that would doubtless follow in the wake of his words. "Could be simple fault of mine, however. May have overcompensated on last skin weave upgrade. Noted the commander's extreme pain tolerance on Purgatory ship, chose to...take matters into own hands."

"So what you're saying is you've been _experimenting_ on me, Mordin?! What kind of sick goals are you pursuing? Shit, I can't trust anyone..." Shepard buried her face in her hands, fiercely rubbing her temples with the palms of her hands.

Mordin's usual clipped cadences took a distinct turn for the miffed. "Simply did not wish to witness repeat of reckless stunts, refusal of medical aid on Purgatory. Despite compelling reasons not to, actually care about your well-being, Morrigan Shepard. Even when you don't." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the med bay, clasping his hands behind his back in a false semblance of indifference. Shepard gazed levelly at the space he had hitherto occupied while Doctor Chakwas set about extracting the spent bullet from her wound.

"If I may, Commander -"

Shepard blinked. "Sure, go ahead. What am I gonna do, bleed all over you?"

"Whether you're suffering from indoctrination or a miscalculation on Mordin's part or some combination of the two, you should get plenty of rest before undertaking another assignment, even if it won't necessarily include combat. As a medical professional, I can confirm that it's absolutely true what they say about mental health days," Chakwas reassured.

"Something like that might be tricky to schedule. The Illusive Man's getting impatient for me to go check out some derelict Reaper or other."

"Well, all I can say is that it will have to wait, particularly if we determine that indoctrination has had anything to do with altering your tolerance to pain. Take some shore leave, Shepard – doctor's orders. It may be equally advantageous for the crew to get some rest as well." Chakwas put away her forceps and began cleaning the traumatized skin with rubbing alcohol. Shepard observed with satisfaction that Guld's bullet now lay innocently on the adjacent table.

"You know, you've got a point there, Doctor. I haven't taken them out on leave in months. They're probably cursing me out behind my back as we speak."

"Oh, I don't know about the entire crew, Commander...but I'd venture it's a safe bet that Mordin is, at least."

"Okay, Doc, _you_ tell_ me_ how I was supposed to react to that," Shepard grumbled, throwing up her hands in frustration.

"I agree that it was unethical of him not to tell you he would be making adjustments to your pain threshold. Still, he had the best of intentions, and in all honesty I find it rather adorable how he looks after you."

Shepard balked – the last thing she needed was for the crew to start infantilizing her based on something she could not begin to control, let alone understand. "It's not adorable, it's damned humiliating."

"Think of his culture, though. Females are in such scarce supply that most of them spend their lives cloistered on their home planets, and no self-respecting salarian clan would ever send a female into battle. They're too valuable for the survival of their race." Chakwas let out a sudden chuckle. "He probably thinks we humans are mental for sending the likes of _you_ into the fray!"

"Yes, but I haven't seen him rushing over to foist medi-gel on Lawson or Jack...not yet, at least."

The doctor chuckled again, this time more heartily. "Shepard, neither your XO nor Jack encourages his behavior!"

Shepard considered this, eventually deciding to concede the point. In any case, she sorely wished to change the subject, and saw little wisdom in arguing with the head medical technician while being patched up so expertly. "So, where do you think I should take the crew on leave?"

"The Citadel always seems to be a popular destination for flight crews. But you're not going anywhere until you've made a full recovery and apologized to Mordin."

"Apologize? For objecting to being kept in the dark about my own health?"

"Like Mordin said, someone has to look out for it." Chakwas offered Shepard a good-natured smile as she rose to exit the room. "I would advise that you spend the night here, Commander. That way, if you have need of me I will be able to help you on short notice. That much cannot be said if I have to bargain with EDI for access to your cabin."

"Well...okay. Thanks for all your help, Doc."

* * *

Sleep eluded Shepard even more than usual that night cycle. The local anesthetic had begun to wear off, and a surplus of light issuing forth from the main battery indicated that Garrus was up to his usual business. She had more than half a mind to hobble down to Engineering and ask Jack to borrow her book, and was only deterred upon hearing a faint clattering sound coming from the front of the ship. She froze, groping under the pillow for her pistol before remembering that she was in the med bay and therefore cut off from her usual arsenal. The clattering tapered off, then resumed as it became louder by the smallest of increments at a time. Alarmed, Shepard readied a thermite jet in her omni-tool and pointed it squarely at the med bay doors, which slid open almost precisely on cue. In bustled Mordin, carrying the same teapot and mug she remembered from the aftermath of the Horizon mission.

Shepard grinned sheepishly as she lowered her weapon. "Should have known it was my fellow insomniac."

If Mordin had found it disquieting to be confronted with a potentially lethal tech blast at 0230 hours, he did not show it – though Shepard thought she observed a particular stiffness in his gait as he cast about for a place to set the teapot. "Thought you might be awake given anesthetic's length of potency. Came to apply more medi-gel. Seem to remember you enjoyed this tea, so brought some along."

The commander studied Mordin with interest. _Doctor Chakwas has a point: this is all very cute. But why's he going to the trouble? _She accepted the proffered mug with a wry glance. "That's it? Do I detect a hint of passive aggression?"

"Useless to become too resentful. Bad for blood pressure. Wastes time. How do you feel?"

"Well, I'm still in one piece: that's got to count for something. Look, Mordin, I'm sorry if I overreacted earlier. I know you're only trying to do your job -"

The professor raised an impetuous finger, interrupting her. "Not only that. Lazarus project left far too many variables in play. Prototype skin polymer woefully inadequate for protection in high density combat situations. Cutting-edge tech, yes – not bleeding-edge." He helped Shepard turn over and gingerly removed the bandage that Chakwas had improvised for her wound. "Saw dire need to improve on existing solution. Further refinement not only possible, but necessary. Can only deduce Cerberus wanted you alive for select few missions."

Shepard shrugged non-committally and sat up onto her elbows. "Death's pretty predictable about letting you cheat it only so much. I'm sure my number'll be up for good sometime soon, regardless of what Cerberus's plans for me happen to be. Maybe then I'll see Hamon and my parents again."

Mordin froze. For a moment she wondered if he had used Chakwas's chloraethyl spray on himself by accident. "Truly believe that, Morrigan? If so, should give yourself up to Collectors ex post haste. No point in fighting any longer." After an uncomfortably long pause during which Shepard thought breathing might even be in bad taste, she felt the profound sting of concentrated medi-gel near the base of her spine, followed closely by the petty reassurance of a fresh bandage.

"I didn't say I was done fighting, Mordin," she protested through gritted teeth.

"Implied as much. Must have concrete reason to fight, remain among living for as long as possible. Useless to anthropomorphize whole galaxy; need individual, personal stake as impetus."

"I have a reason. I just haven't told you what it is yet." Shepard motioned conspiratorially for Mordin to sit down on the cot adjoining hers; he did so, leaning forward with some measure of trepidation.

She eyed the salarian doctor with effortless candor, finding herself awash in a feeling of sudden and inexplicable tranquility. "It's funny...I keep getting asked what keeps me going in the face of insurmountable odds. Why I don't just curl up and die a second time, I guess is what everyone's trying to imply. I've never once given an honest answer to that question – just spouted empty platitudes in the hopes that those asking it would go away. You know, when I first joined the Alliance Navy, all I had on my mind was revenge for my folks and Hamon. My priorities never truly expanded beyond that narrow box until I met you. That was when I realized exactly what it was that kept me fighting the good fight. I fight because I want to see a galaxy where people like you will be free to pursue the finer things in life. Art, science, music, culture...something beyond mere survival. Where people like me will not be forced to become remorseless killing machines simply to ensure that the names of their dead are duly remembered. Where no two people will be forced to second-guess a blossoming friendship for fear that one of them might not live to see another day. You were right: it certainly helps to have a personal stake in this whole mess...and Mordin, you're quickly becoming mine, like it or not." This last culminated the steady crescendo that had been gradually building throughout her speech. Mordin blinked, and the light from the main battery briefly revealed a single tear brimming in his fathomless eyes.

"Flatter me unduly, Morrigan. Likewise, would not expend professional, emotional effort if uninvested. Should get some sleep; will come by in the morning with revised figures for next upgrade." He exercised more haste and less care than usual in parting, and Shepard observed with amusement that he had neglected to put away the medi-gel and his tools. She poured herself the last of the tea, yawned and pulled the perfunctory covers more tightly around herself.

"Sounds like you're just invested in cutting me open some more," Shepard mused ironically in the wake of Mordin's retreating frame. "What else is new?"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: So RL has been catching up to me in a rather spectacular fashion. As a result, updates will be sparse from now until mid-March. To all who have added this story to their alerts or favorites, I wanted to thank you profusely for your continuing encouragement. As much as I would like to be able to offer you a finished product in a timely fashion, I am also concerned with maintaining the quality of the work (and, unfortunately, these priorities are often mutually exclusive). It is my sincere hope that you find these upcoming chapters to be worth the increased wait. Thanks again. -Minstrel

**Special thanks go out to Werepanther33 for providing a thoughtful and thorough beta-reading of this installment. **

* * *

CHAPTER VI

_Light be the earth upon you, lightly rest._

_- Euripides_

"You've got to be messing with me, EDI."

Joker set about cleaning coffee out of an instrument panel, still coughing hysterically and regretting not having had the foresight to install a simple beverage warning script onto the Normandy's AI. Granted, EDI had only recently begun volunteering choice tidbits of ship gossip to the pilot - directly, in fact, after hacking into Joker's personal computer and discovering his own penchant for voyeurism of a sort. These days he would often find bits of surveillance footage in his inbox, mostly of Operative Taylor doing push-ups, first thing in the morning. That was EDI's usual style, and he had become accustomed to it of late...but _this?_ This was no longer a harmless prank.

EDI seemed unfazed, however, and continued in its previous deadpan vein. "Shackled artificial intelligence platforms do not 'mess with' people, Mr. Moreau. I am simply transmitting Shepard's most recent directive."

"Fair enough, but...shore leave? For a whole week? On the _Citadel?_ Say what you want about gift horses, but something about this just doesn't add up." Satisfied that the panel was now clean enough, Joker poured himself another cup of coffee and began drinking it – carefully.

"I have been observing changes in Shepard's behavioral patterns for the past five and one-half circadian cycles - not a statistically significant amount of time, I realize, but enough to respectfully disagree with your conclusion. She has become somewhat more...laid-back, if I am using the term properly. I have been able to attribute much of this change to the influence of Professor Solus: all microexpressive indications I have analyzed suggest that she respects him deeply."

"Mordin? Even though he acts like he's just been given tenure at FU?" Joker paused, rolling the thought around in his mind as if sampling a strange yet exclusive wine. "...Yeah, I can kinda see that."

"From the conversation Doctor Chakwas conducted with our newest crew member earlier, it would also seem that pressing medical concerns were a factor in scheduling the leave."

"You mean, apart from the big gaping hole in the Commander's back?"

"Shepard considered herself well enough to return to active duty three cycles ago, as I'm sure you recall. You were, after all, the one responsible for rescuing her and her team from the Collector ship in a most...system-intensive manner."

Joker let out an annoyed shudder, a gesture he alone had perfected during his various dealings with EDI. "Yeah, I'd kinda blocked that one out of my memory. Thanks for dredging that up." He brightened, turning to face EDI's hologram. "So, uh, did scale itch get onto the Normandy, or what?"

"Despite being quartered in the most arid room on the ship, Sere Krios claimed that some of his more unpleasant respiratory symptoms are worsening. Upon performing a more thorough analysis of moisture content in Life Support, I concluded that comprehensively dehumidifying deck three would provide the best solution to Sere Krios's predicament. In order to do so most efficiently, however, I would first have to remove all oxygen content from the ship." Although the incorporeal blue globe representing EDI was incapable of evoking facial expressions, Joker could have sworn that a mocking smirk hid within the artificial voice's usual alacrity.

"Well, that's just great. So who'd you end up drafting to push me around the Citadel? Or were you thinking of pulling a HAL-9000 and leaving me here?"

EDI paused for a fraction of a second - just long enough to scan all available references to the homicidal supercomputer on the extranet, Joker guessed. "I find that remark to be in rather poor taste, Mr. Moreau," it retorted in apparent umbrage.

"Yeah, well, what if I find your programming to be in poor taste? What now?"

An imperious rap of knuckles on metal interrupted their exchange. Joker swiveled around in surprise to find Shepard leaning against the door frame, visibly amused.

"Hey, break it up in here - this isn't the War Room."

"First I've heard. Hey, EDI says we've got shore leave coming up. Should I be thanking you or blaming it for lying through its, uh, teeth?"

"Neither. Thank Chakwas; she insisted. Didn't want Krios keeling over anytime soon. Plenty of nice, dry air floating around Zakera Ward, from what I understand."

"There was also something about a big-ass biotic field getting introduced to your spine and the two of them not getting along so well."

Shepard glanced casually behind her. "Oh, that? I'd almost forgotten. Mordin's a wizard," she added as she rolled her neck from side to side, enjoying the ease of motion allowed to her by the latest skin-weave upgrade.

"Either that, or you're made of solid kryptonite," Joker exhaled. Some days he almost believed it.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Moreau...except a few solid promotions and the odd commendation," Shepard quipped, punctuating the remark with a rakish wink as she turned to exit.

"So where does _'undue'_ flattery get me, then? Just curious."

The commander froze in her tracks before slowly rounding on him, cybernetic scars glowing in the gloom of the cockpit. "Excuse me?"

"If 'undue' flattery can get you god-mode medical upgrades from the Nutty Professor, to what heights could it possibly take your lowly-but-extremely-reliable pilot with the most stellar work ethic in galactic history?" Joker flashed Shepard a deliberately infuriating grin, while Shepard leaned back on her right foot and crossed her arms in annoyance.

"I'd hardly call snooping through Normandy surveillance vids while on duty part of a healthy, functioning work ethic, let alone a stellar one. That _is _how you were privy to that conversation, correct?"

"Well...EDI started it. Right, EDI?"

"I do not have the capacity to feel as organics do, Shepard, but your exchange with Professor Solus six night cycles ago brought me closer to decrypting several of the more profound organic emotions. Prominent among them were contrition, determination and what the human author C.S. Lewis referred to as _agape_. I have indeed allocated significant processing power toward analyzing the footage in question," EDI admitted - somewhat sheepishly, in Shepard's opinion.

"Someday I'm going to write a little shell script that will do away once and for all with that nosiness of yours," the commander sighed, massaging her temples in exasperation.

"Daisy...Daisy...give me your answer, do..."**  
**

Shepard chuckled at the reference. "Now, now, Moreau, that might be going a bit too far. At the very least, you'd miss being able to take bathroom breaks without the Normandy crashing - not to mention the countless hours of fun watching edited highlights of the None Of Your Damn Business Show."

"Eh. My daughter, my ducats."

* * *

Visiting the Citadel always set Shepard on edge. Perhaps its unnaturally curving angles, evoking to Shepard the interior of a distended musical instrument, held most of the blame; but neither could she stand its resident AI, Avina, nor visit the wards without a hand planted firmly on her holster. If it had not been for Chakwas's insistence, she would have infinitely preferred holing up in some shady bar and passing the time in an inebriated haze. At least no-one with a head on his shoulders asked uncomfortable questions in such a place, lest he invite any number of creative and career-limiting responses.

Shepard held her breath as she passed through the C-Sec checkpoint. The false identification imprint she had installed onto her omni-tool the previous night would withstand standard scrutiny, she knew...but what of other, more basic factors? Some idiot politician on Mindoir had decided to start using her likeness on its colonial seal, after all, and being dead had not exactly allowed for making deliberate changes to her appearance. She shot a sharp, appraising glance at her reflection in the glass: calculating grey eyes stared back out of pale sockets, while a callused hand rose up to flatten her misbehaving crop of black hair. Exactly the Shepard people knew and would remember, only with a few cybernetic additions. _Fan-fucking-tastic. Why didn't I think about this before?_

A C-Sec employee on the far side of middle-aged pulled up her files and surveyed them with a kind of grumpy lassitude. He struck Shepard as the type of man in perpetual need of a vacation - whether from the oppressive doldrums of his post, his home life, or simply from the tyranny of having to roll himself out of bed each morning. _Easily manipulated, few convictions beyond preferred brandy vintage, _Shepard guessed. _I might just be in luck._

"Liz Schafer, is it? Welcome to the Citadel. Stay out of trouble and this'll be the last you see of...whoa!" Recognition dawned on the officer like sunrise on a gas giant. "You probably get this a lot, but you look just like Commander Shepard."

"I'm her biggest fan."

"Sound like her, too."

"Yeah, I had my voice electronically altered."

The man lazily gestured toward something suspect on his computer screen. "You've even got Spectre status. Funny. I wasn't aware that humanity already had a second Spectre – one who looks and sounds just like Shepard, to boot." A purposeful glint, one that Shepard did not like in the slightest, illuminated his formerly passive blue gaze.

_The Council didn't renounce it when I died after all. Shit. _"Fine, you got me. Guilty as charged: I am Commander Shepard. But nobody here is going to find out from you, got it? I'm looking to avoid Council intrigue this time around. My crew is here with me and our business is strictly our own."

"No worries, Commander – er, 'Liz'. Name's Captain Armando Bailey, by the way. It's good knowing you're still around: there've been rumors among the boys." He extended a meaty hand, which Shepard shook with no small amount of reservation.

"And those rumors will stay rumors - at least until I leave the Citadel. Unless you're looking to sign up for a crash course from Vakarian about vigilante justice."

"Garrus Vakarian's on your crew, then? I wondered what he'd been up to these past couple years."

"Yep, him and a shipload of other dangerous bastards." A deliciously subversive thought slithered into Shepard's mind, as she considered that this fellow might not only be utterly harmless, but he could prove to be of some use to her and her crew. "Say, a fine officer such as yourself might be able to help him and another associate of mine out...provided that the matters are handled with the utmost discretion and confidentiality." Shepard offered Bailey an ingratiating, if somewhat predatory, smile as she tapped a few buttons on her omni-tool, transferring a few thousand credits to the captain's personal account. When he realized precisely what she was doing, he beamed, acquiesced, and led her into a private area of the headquarters where they proceeded to discuss matters relating to Garrus and Thane.

* * *

It had not been a simple task to convince Thane's son to abandon his unsavory path. Captain Bailey had provided assistance above and beyond the trifling thousands given him, however, and Shepard already considered herself to be on vacation if she was not automatically expected to do everyone's job. All in all, it was shaping up to be a pleasant stay: her nondescript motel room in Zakera Ward ensured her a modicum of privacy, though she could not help but peer nervously around every corner for that Verner fellow. What she truly needed, she decided, was a small opportunity to relax completely...preferably in an area with no surveillance of any kind. To Shepard's disappointment, the asari receptionist informed her that Sha'ira had since fled the Citadel, but the favorable mention of a particular sauna four blocks away struck a similar chord with her. She decided to head there immediately, not even bothering to change out of her armor first.

After having showered and wrapped a thick towel around herself, she ventured toward one of the smaller heated rooms in the sprawling complex. An oddly specific sign hung prominently on the door, advising salarian and hanar patrons that, at 45 degrees Celsius and six percent relative humidity, the room was not safe for them to enter. Shrugging, Shepard eased the door open, only to find Thane seated comfortably on the cedar bench closest to the coals. He inclined his head to her in greeting, while she gave him a satisfied nod – it was obvious that the drell was in his element.

"Enjoying the leave so far?"

"Indeed I am, Shepard. It is quite gratifying to know that Kolyat will not be mixing with the Citadel's criminal element any longer. As you can see, Miss Chambers's suggestion of visiting a sauna fell on a most receptive audience. She did, however, insist on joining me at a time when I would have preferred somewhat less excitable company," he confessed with a regretful smile.

Shepard nodded knowingly and took an adjacent seat, tactically adjusting her towel as she did so."Sounds like how Yeoman Chambers operates. If she keeps hovering, please let me know and I'll take the necessary disciplinary measures."

"I do not expect that it will become a problem. Hers is merely a lonely soul in need of reassurance."

This surprised Shepard. "Reassurance? What kind? She always seemed pretty sure of herself to me," she reflected, recalling their notorious shouting match regarding professionalism on the Normandy. Granted, Chambers had ultimately lost that argument...but if anyone could stick to their proverbial guns no matter how often they misfired, it was her.

"Reassurance that she is needed and her work respected. I believe you would do well to remind her of this fact every now and again, Shepard."

Shepard always resented it when her subordinates attempted to give her leadership advice. She huffed in disdain and pointed an annoyed finger at Thane. "My crew is my business, Krios. You'd do well to remember _that _fact every now and then."

"I beg your pardon, Commander," Thane disclaimed, visibly taken aback. "My intent was simply to advise, never to offend. Miss Chambers holds great respect for you, and I fear that trifling encouragements from a colleague may not hold as much value to her as a few kind words from her superior."

Shepard sighed: this was not a battle she truly desired to fight at the moment. "Noted."

Letting out a soft grunt of duress, Thane rose to stoke the coals in the stove with an adjacent poker. "If I may change the subject, Shepard -"

"Go ahead."

"Shore leave may not be the best time to discuss this, but I feel I must play the opportunist as I rarely see you outside your cabin or the second-floor laboratory. Is there anything more you can divulge to me about this...suicide mission?"

Shepard picked up another poker and began outlining critical locations using the coal stove as a map of the Milky Way. "All we know at this point is that the Omega-4 relay will somehow lead us to the Collector base, and that we may possibly be able to pick up an identify-friend-or-foe interface on a derelict Reaper orbiting Mnemosyne." She tapped the location of Mnemosyne on her imaginary map a few times for emphasis. "From a purely technical perspective, obtaining this could improve our chances of surviving past the jump, but once we're inside the base we'll still be shooting dice. I say this because a few of us just had the, ah, pleasure of witnessing the true power of the Collector overmind on their ship. Let's just say that even Jack wasn't jaded enough to get through that unscathed."

"What about the countermeasure Sere Solus has been developing? Will that help?"

"It already has been. No way we'll survive without it."

Thane chuckled gently at her words. "Shepard, you are already aware that I am not concerned with my own survival. I merely ask on behalf of those for whom I have grown to care since joining your team."

"Understandable. I've been dead and it didn't seem so bad at the time. If I kick the bucket again this time, so be it." She sat back down on the bench with a heavy thud, Thane following suit somewhat more gracefully.

"Succumbing to disease and succumbing to fatalism are two very different paths, Shepard, even though they both lead nowhere. I can neither alter the former as it applies to myself nor encourage the latter as it applies to you," he affirmed as he let his hand rest lightly on Shepard's shoulder. The gesture surprised her and made her acutely aware of the heat-absorbent capabilities of drell scales, but she did not object.

"Thanks, but let me remind you that it never hurts to be realistic. Civilians have at least a chance of getting happy endings. As soldiers, we don't have the luxury of anticipating them for ourselves."

"With all due respect, Commander, there is a wide gulf between working toward a happy ending and simply expecting that one will show up on your doorstep without effort on your part."

Shepard shrugged off Thane's hand and got up to leave. _Hmph. This was supposed to be a relaxing diversion. I didn't come here to be lectured at and given pithy sayings to ponder. _"Look, Krios -"

"Thane, please. I insist."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "All right. Thane. Full disclosure: I would like to survive. I would like you to survive. I would like Mordin to survive. I can expend all the effort in the galaxy to make sure we do so, right up until a Praetorian appears out of nowhere and fries us into a nice, colorful platter of hors d'oeuvres when we're not paying attention." As she continued, she became more and more animated, pacing around the room and making wide, sweeping gestures with her slender arms. "The universe is a chaotic place, and the best way of combating this is to recognize and embrace its nature as such. _Never_ be off your guard. That's the best piece of advice I can give you, or anyone for that matter."

"Shepard, mind you don't -" Thane made an urgent gesture indicating that Shepard's towel was on the verge of collapsing around her, thereby ceasing to act as a functional garment. She hastily gathered it back around herself, stuffing a stubborn corner underneath another as if she were driving nails into a Mako.

"Point taken." _Very funny, Thane. Not._

Grinning good-naturedly, Thane added a few more coals to the stove. "Might I add a corollary to your theorem, Shepard? Some degree of relaxation is permissible while on shore leave – even for once-departed commanders who are perpetually on their guard."

* * *

Meanwhile, back on the Normandy, Mordin busily gathered datapads and copied figures to his omni-tool, pausing only briefly to feed the lab's resident seeker. He was late. He had never been able to stand the thought of others waiting around for him, particularly since it happened so rarely. This time affected him even more, however, since there was so many tests he had to run before EDI decided to dehumidify the ship. No sooner had it affably informed the professor that "aerobic purging" would commence in five minutes than his omni-tool blinked a sharp infrared up at him. A top-priority call on a secure channel. Mordin sighed heavily and pulled up the holographic screen, taking an immediate dislike to what he saw and heard.

"Professor Solus. I trust all is well?"

A voice like a stray cat kneading on silk. That idiotic, incomplete suit with the unbuttoned shirt. The perennially overflowing ashtray – so unhygenic. Everything about the Illusive Man irritated Mordin, and he made no attempt to hide the fact from either of them.

"Surprised you cannot see for yourself. Have found enough surveillance bugs aboard Normandy to blanket Omega," Mordin remarked in indignation.

"Correct – at least until Shepard tampered with them. Remind me why you saw fit to allow that."

"Not my place to allow or disallow Shepard's behavior. Particularly not after witnessing Maelon's use of study funds."

The head of Cerberus grinned slyly, pointing his cigarette at the scientist like a rapier. "As I recall, we agreed that young Heplorn would be given carte blanche in respect to the sum negotiated between us, scientific integrity being paramount and all."

"Conveniently forgot to mention corruption of Maelon to me when making alleged deal. Cerberus likely responsible party for that as well."

"Come now, Doctor – isn't Heplorn better off not having his career shattered if certain...details were to surface regarding his involvement in Project Firebreak?" The Illusive Man stroked his chin in mock contemplation. "Come to think of it, his career might not be the only thing to shatter: I hear krogan can be quite angry this time of year."

"Old tactic. New parameters. Not going to work this time." Mordin swallowed hard. "Have lost all desire to help Maelon," he lied, albeit stoically. Clearly not having expected resistance from the old professor, the Illusive Man took a pensive pull on his cigarette, carefully examining Mordin through the holographic screen, sizing him up.

"You are proving to be a disappointment, Solus. Still, you've carried out the first part of our agreement, since you're obviously the only living thing Shepard trusts at the moment. It would be wise of you to recognize that power for what it is, and how it could benefit both of us quite handsomely in the end. Convince her to turn all Collector tech over to Cerberus, including the base if she succeeds in capturing it. Talk science to her. I'll make it worth your while." He allowed himself an inelegant smirk. "And you never know: there might be some...unforeseen side benefits. I have it on good authority that she harbors a strong preference for intelligent men." Partially turning his back to Mordin, the Illusive Man snuffed out his cigarette while the professor flushed a brilliant green, nearly rendered speechless in his affront.

"You disgust me," he managed to spit as he disconnected the call.

* * *

Still flustered from his recent ordeal, Mordin scoped out the most secluded corner of the Commons and began analyzing a particularly anomalous group of Collector data in an attempt to calm down. Despite his best efforts, it was not long before he had to brook the presence of a curious bystander. Choosing to ignore whoever it was, he locked his eyes on the datapad and continued typing, oblivious to the outside world. Only when the figure in question planted her hands on her hips and uttered his name with chagrin did he glance up.

"Morrigan! Pleasure to see you. Looking refreshed. Already benefitting from leave, I presume?" He hastily set aside the datapad, causing another three to slide out of the stack and collapse onto the ground. Startled, Shepard helped him reorder them by primary scientific discipline, although she did not exactly know what to make of his current turmoil. Hoping that the mere presence of a sympathetic soul would take the edge off of whatever troubled him, she decided not to pry. He would likely confide in her if he deemed it important enough.

"You could certainly say that. I just had a nice chat with Thane in the sauna on Zakera Ward."

"Good. Glad to hear he is heeding medical advice. Unless quite mistaken, steam room for hanar and salarians nearby. Opposite environment; comparable effect. Might visit given time and opportunity."

"I'd recommend it. Given how hard you've been working these days, I'm sure you need a break more than just about any of the crew," she affirmed, as persuasively as she knew how.

"Quite the contrary. Never quite at ease unless working to fullest possible capacity. Brought some data compiled from Collector ship. Hoping to analyze comprehensively over course of leave."

Shepard shook her head in equal parts amusement and disbelief. "Fair enough, but be sure to make time for other pursuits as well. As Vakarian likes to say, you can't win a war without a little R&R."

"An astute observation." He held out a wiry arm, indicating that Shepard should join him on the bench; she did so, but not without shifting uncomfortably in response to his own obvious vexation. His eyelids fluttered shut as he clasped his gloved hands together, formulating his next words with utmost care.

"Morrigan, wanted to thank you again for assistance on Tuchanka. Above and beyond call of your professional duties. Means...a great deal to me that Maelon is safe. Overall estimation of him much less salutary in light of recent, abominable abuses of science. Still, willing to make temporary exception in his case."

Shepard grinned and leaned back, stretching her arms behind her. "He'll come around eventually, if he learned anything from you."

"Hope you're right. Taught him everything he knows. Did not teach him everything_ I_ know."

A sudden thought struck Shepard. "Could you use a lab assistant? I'm sure we could squeeze him in somewhere." She began mentally tallying all the empty rooms on the crew deck; the sheer amount of unused space on the Normandy made her blush.

Mordin flinched. "Appreciate the thought, but no. Would deter from mission at hand. Conflict of interest inevitable. ...Highly problematic." He sighed heavily and retreated back into himself. A lengthy and cumbersome silence hung in the air a few feet above them, daring Shepard to break it. Finally, she acquiesced, though not gladly so.

"Are you all right, Mordin? I didn't expect you to act like this over the ideological loss of one student." Eyeing the professor with considerable concern, Shepard shifted closer to him on the bench. Mordin's eyes darted every which way as his mind began to race. By his jaded estimations, it did not seem like a purely innocuous line of questioning. How long, he wondered, until she discovered that the Illusive Man had twice attempted to blackmail him?

"You and Maelon weren't...involved, by any chance?"

Mordin could have shed tears of relief at Shepard's ridiculous conclusion; nevertheless, he somehow managed to maintain a passable veneer of indifference. "Not entirely sure what you mean. Quite close as mentor and protégé, certainly. Have to understand, human metric of affection quite different than that of salarians. Platonic ideal could be considered best human analogue to closest salarian bonds."

He suddenly let out a shallow sigh, feigned brightness, and turned his gaze on Shepard. "Still, truest love has been science. So far. Am not expecting this to change anytime soon...not much time left, in any case."

Shepard felt a sudden urge to whisk him off the bench and squeeze every last accumulated remnant of melancholy out of him. "Do you still want to see Maelon?"

"Impossible, Shepard. Revelations on Tuchanka constitute clear parameter shift. Separate ways only foreseeable solution, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry, Mordin," Shepard hazarded. _Damn it. What else is there to say?_

"Apology uncalled for. Without you there, would have fatally shot favorite assistant. Should be apologizing myself for absence during your conflict with Hamon on Mindoir."

Shepard practically choked at the unexpected mention of Hamon. "That can hardly be construed as a similar case. First of all, you and I hadn't even met at the time; second of all, what happened to him was a damn tragedy. I doubt anyone could have done anything to bring the old Hamon back after what the batarians did to him."

"Could have remotely delivered shock targeted to neural impulse centers. Process renders target unconscious. Insensate. From there, quite simple to remove implant by emergency surgical means. Cranial implants often placed just underneath epidermis, particularly those of batarian manufacture. Survival and return to normality virtually assured, despite sizeable mental trauma upon awakening."

Mordin turned to face Shepard, gingerly gathering her hands in his. "As with Maelon, would not have had to end in tragedy. Am deeply in your debt, Morrigan Shepard." As he gazed at the remarkable human before him and considered his botched contract with the Illusive Man, he held out a vehement hope that she would never have to discover the full extent of that debt.


End file.
